Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Murphy and Solly, Murphy’s longtime friend and
pawnbroker-- the faithful
custodian of his toaster, for lo these many years -- sat at meat, in that
temple of philosophical discourse,Joe’s Bar.

Now
Solly -- a Jewish guy, and faithful to the faith of his fathers, though you’d
never know it to look at him-- he
and Murphy agreed on a lot of things;and disagreed on a lot of things;and on some things, they agreed that they had no way to either agree or
disagree -- just like there are some things that a dame knows, and a guy’s just
gotta take her word for it;and
some things a joe knows, and a dame just gotta put up with it:eternal mysteries.Like, Murphy, who had no head
for money -- no pockets for it, even -- just had to concede that Solly, who was
a whiz at that stuff, was the only one who could come up with a fair loan on a
pawn, and keep the total running in his head, and adjust when an item was (finally) redeemed, and add on
interest where applicable, or deduct the right discount on the Yom Kippur Day
Specials:Murphy simply held
forth the teevee, or the hotplate, or his last pair of shoes, and accepted in
complete confidence whatever Solly offered;it always felt fair.And Solly had to concede that, when it came to
things like One God oh no I actually meant Three;or water turning into wine, and wine into blood;and things acknowledged to be
completely incomprehensible even to priests, yet just as certainly true --
well, Solly would have to leave all that to Murphy;Solly, he was out of his league.

So
they’re washing down hot-dogs with the local stuff on draft, and settling
mighty questions of history and philosophy, of theology and of science, and
whether dames look best in tight sweaters -- which emphasize certain features
-- or in the most modest of costumes -- which emphasizes the eyes.And then when they had come to
the third round, both enjoying the combat, yet mellowed by the brew, Solly
ventured onto delicate territory:for with these two, nothing was taboo.

“So
Murphy, tell me -- tell me true.Right:You don’t do divorce
cases.Not saying you ought
to --- Oh, don’t remind me of my own divorce!-- Agreed agreed, they’re
unpleasant:but so is almost
everything we do.You
think I like taking some dame’s wedding ring in pawn?But she needs the money;what can you do.And I mean -- you do some stuff -- well I mean… Murphy…. You’re a grown man, you know
about Mine and Thine, and yet -- you keep helping yourself to other people’s
cars.”

“Well,
I don’t help myself when other people’s in
‘em -- I don’t jack.Plus it’s
just on a loan, Solly -- like the toaster.”

“Yeh
like that toaster;what I got on
and off in inventory these past fifteen years.A toaster what
don’t even work.”

“Yeh
okay okay;I got a weakness for
abandoned cars.They been
sitting there alone for an hour, they get to feeling lonesome, and
unappreciated, so I come along and appreciate them, and speak to them, and drive
them around.Okay.Your point.”

“The
point is, Murphy, the point is that
you do a lot of sketchy stuff.Stuff on the edge.Stuff
that wouldn’t go down so good at the Country Club.Plus some…some really rough stuff, if what I hear around is
true.”

“Yeh
well, sometimes.This one time --
really really bad.But I repented
of that.Never did the same thing
again.”

“So
okay, with variations.But
the thing is:What is it with you
and divorce cases?Yeh they
stink, no argument;but are they really
worse than some stuff that you did -- and some stuff you did laughing -- like
playing at crime boss and heisting that truck full of heroin and using it to
run a patrol car into a ditch?I
mean -- Murphy!”

Murphy
was silent.What could he say?

“Y’see,
Murphy, me, I got this
theory.I don’t think you
stay away from divorce cases just because they’re dirty.Sure they’re dirty;it’s a dirty world.This part of town especially.But you -- no.With you it’s more than that.You steer clear of divorce
cases -- steer clear like the plague -- not for practical reasons, or aesthetic
reasons, or even… even moral reasons,
exactly…With you it’s…”

“It’s
for mystical reasons.”Without inflection.Sipping slowly;looking out
over the rim of the glass.

“For
mystical reasons.Right.”Murphy took a chug and swallowed
hard -- for now swallowing was hard -- and looked stubbornly over at the
pinball machines.

“Okay,
fine:mystical reasons.Only-- help me out here, wouldja?You don’t get all…mystical…
about loving your country; or telling the truth;or taking your lumps as they come; though you’re about all
those things.But when it
comes to divorce -- you get mystical.Is it like, some kinda childhood thing, like that thing with your Pop and your Mom?”

“What
-- you mean, that Pop skipped out?Sure, bad move;but me, I
never even met the guy.For
all I know, they never did divorce.Fact -- for all I know, they were never even properly married.No, that ain’t it.Sorry Mr. Freud -- you
don’t win that kewpie doll.”

“So
what is it?”

Murphy
mumbling.“Hard t’explain…”

Now
Solly got thoughtful.“Y’know… Just indulge me here, okay?Because I heard a rumor there’s this, some kind of Church
doctrine, in this general area -- I won’t even try to quote it, I’d just screw
it up:but something along
the lines of, like, a woman and a man, yadda yadda, and they get hitched up by
God, in just the right way:and
from then on,it’s like trying to
yank a horseshoe loose from the hoof -- or no:more like, trying to yank the blue right out of the sky.”

Murphy
raised a respectful eyebrow.“That’s pretty much it, Solly.That’s very well put.”He nodded again, and savored.The blue, right out of the sky.

“So
like -- Murphy -- that belief, I get it:it’s a mystical belief.My people also understand what
that might mean, by the way, believe it or not.I mean, God spoke to Moses, right out of a burning
bush.”

“Guess
you had to be there,” Murphy said.

“Yeh
-- right.”Solly wasn’t sure
if Murphy was making blasphemous fun of the Torah, or whether he meant it
literally:as a fact, or even as a
wish.Anyhow he hurried on.“So this -- this doctrine, or
this dogma, or this whatever you guys call it -- phrase it however you like,
this mystical Thing:do you -- do
you believe it?You?Honest Injun?For real?”

Murphy
frowned.“Look, Solly -- I
don’t want to squirrel out, here; but it’s kind of the wrong question.-- No I mean, it’s a perfectly
okay question, just on a friendly level, like Do you think Amanda’s hot, and
Whadaya think about the chances for Brooklyn this year.But nothing eternal depends upon your fluttering,
or my flickering, moods of belief or unbelief.And thank God for that!Plus even, let’s say, believing:we can believe
true things for wrong reasons;or
slightly off-kilter things for good reasons;or believe true things for what passes for sound reasons,
only fact is we don’t know what the heck
we’re talking about.Just
like what most everybody believes and ever has believed, about stuff in
science.You may
believe the planet Earth goes round and round the sun;and that your sandwich is made up of
atoms, and that the atoms are all stuck
together out of these little eentsy bits can’t nobody see ‘em;and that might be true; but brother, you
ain’t got a clue.”

Murphy
then took a long, and slow, reflective sip, of the splendid beverage in his
tall glass.It was
shaped like a long and slender cone;and he eyed with discerning pleasure, how the level of the sparkling gold
went down, with each refreshing draught.

“Tell
you one thing, though -- I believe a lot more drunk, than I do sober.And that doesn’t mean I’m misbelieving
then, either.

“Give
you an example.You’ve heard of
Dutch Courage -- the bravery or bravado, of a man in his cups.Well, it’s not the best kind of courage
around:but it’s better than nothing;and it’s one helluva lot better than
cowardice.

“And
when I’m in my cups -- in my shot-glasses, in my beer-mugs -- then I have a
kind of courage that I might not have at other times.And I believe things that, at other times, I…I might still
believe… but am ashamed to believe.

“Like
-- You ask me if I literally believe what the Church teaches:that he and she who are united, in the
name of the Ghost, become indeed One Flesh -- yet of a flesh, a flesh more
fiery and more fleshly than this
sagging paunch and these dried-out wrinkles here -- a flesh such as that very
bread becomes, when it ignites and catches fire -- no, catches light…”

And
then, alarmingly,his eyes grew
red, like a mean drunk.And
suddenly he lunged across the table, grabbingSolly by his necktie.“Yes, I believe it,
dammit!I believe it utterly, I believe it savagely.”Stunned by his own sudden violence, he relaxed his grip, and
settled back.“But when I’m in a
roomful of exquisitely educated reserved people, with their langorous manners
and their tight Princetonian smiles -- well, then, it sort of sucks to sound
like an idiot, or a caveman, or a…or a Christian.. so then I mumble something
and make excuses and they all nod and agree and say Well-spoken (for a working
man), and add On the one hand this and On the other hand that, sigh sigh, we’ll
never know, but isn’t it swell that in this great country of ours, each one is
free to celebrate his or her own unique and individual independent completely
made-up beliefs,all of them so
delightfully quaint, which none of us should ever criticize, since after all,
What is truth?We’ll never know.”

Again
the savage growl;Solly prudently
moved his chair back, as Murphy was again looking dangerous:though this time, for a broader and
absent enemy.

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Murphy Makes a Mitzvah

Murphy Calls in a Specialist

Don't Mention It

From the Mailbag (SERIOUS ENQUIRIES ONLY)

Dear Mr. and Mr. Murphy:

As a law-enforcement professional, I am pleased that you boys have dedicated your lives to ridding the world of bad guys.Yet as a professional in the field of Law Enforcement, I am distressed that, every time you guys get near the china shop, you break the china.Please clean up your act(s)!I am asking you this in my capacity as a professional enforcer of the Law.

V/R,

Sgt. Lazaro

--

Greetings, sergeant!

You’re right; and we’re sorry for all the bad stuff we did, and will probably continue doing.But the next time we lift some long green off some yegg that don’t deserve it, we promise to donate it in its entirety to the Policeman’s Ball.

V/V/R,

The Murphys

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Murphys:

Do you have any idea where I left my car keys?

-- Perplexed

--

Hey Perp.:

What is it about the Interwebs that brings the lamebrains out of the woodwork, always popping up with some off-topic rant or inane inquiry, even to a hi-class quality cultural joint like this one here (O yes we forgot to announce it:string quartet onsite Thursday, usual time, immediately following the poetry reading).We’ve got a good mind to --No, waitaminit. Wait.Hey, you ain’t -- you wouldn’t be the previous owner of that Dodge what we borrowed and forgot to bring back?Cos in that case we can tell you:keys are still in the ignition, just where you considerately left them;only now broken off some.And hey, we’re really sorry.Really meant to bring it right back good is new.Only, the thing that happened was -- well it’s a long story -- actually a really funny one,keep you in stitches, except maybe for that part at the end where we total your car.Really really sorry about that.

Yours attritely,

Murphy X 2

------------------------------------------

Messieurs Murphy:

I write to you in a matter of the utmost delicacy, requiring the most refined discretion.My enquiries have led me to believe that the two of you are of such character as can be relied upon not to (as they say) “spill the beans”.

The matter concerns a diamond -- or as I might say, * the * diamond :none other than that jewel which formed the splendid centerpiece of the crown of Sulayman the Magnificent, who took it in booty, during the wars.

As you may know from your reading of history, the gem in question first went missing in the thirteenth century -- the mystery was never solved -- only to resurfacea century laterin Amsterdam,in the possession of a secretive Jew.From him it was stolen by none other than Jacques le Cocu, and sold for a princely sum to certain merchants, whose identity remains obscure.From thence it was funneled to the private treasures of Frederick the Great -- only to be once again purloined, under the Ottomans, and sent on to Istanbul.There it now resides, in an underground chamber of the inner sanctum of the Topkapi Palace, under the heavy guard of eunuchs whose fanatical loyalty is unquestionable.For years it has lain there, untouched and unseen.

Yet at last comes a chink in its armor.I have proved able, via various bribes and stratagems, to obtain the combination to a lock which seals a hitherto unguessed-at private entrance to the subterranean chamber.I need you to accompany me, as lookouts, and to do battle with the halberd-wielding eunuchs should they get wind of this.Your payment will be substantial; but your real satisfaction will be to see this peerless jewelat last restoredto its rightful owner.

Yours magnificently,

Monsieur le Comte Gran-Tord de Beauville

--

Dear Monsieur, or Beauville, or however it goes:

Thank you for yours of the sixteenth current.We have noted your proposal.I ran it past our Joey department, and he says, No dice.Sounds too much like repo.

--- --- ---

Dear Murphys:

A bad person stole my teddy-bear.Fluffy is now being held captive in a windowless room in a doorless tower within a moat-ringed castle, guarded by heavily-armed zombie deaf-mutes.Could you maybe get him back for me?I can’t actually pay you till my next allowance, but it shouldn’t be too hard.Here’s the secret plans:

(a) Kill all the zombies.

(b) Blow up the moat.

(c ) Get the bear.

Love,

Ginnie

--

Dear Ginnie:

We like that action.You’re on.

Meet us by the old oak.

-- M’s.

~~~

Yo homes!

Man you guys are just tewwwtally kewwwl…. yeww rewwwl, dewwwwdz…I rilly like it how you don’t take no guff from nobody, and how if you see a closed door, you just kick it down.As Casey Stengel put it: “L’audace! Toujours l’audace!”

Jam-Boy

--

Dear Mr. Jam-Boy:

Thank you for your appreciative letter.Casey Stengel is indeed among our favorite authors.

Only, how’s about you go out and buy a couple copies of our g*d-d*mned book, you so eager and all, stead of showering us with your silly witticisms. Our sales are in the terlet, as Casey would say. Epigrams, we can’t eat!

Steamed,

M&M

~~~

Dear Mr. Murphy and Mr. Murphy (respectively):

Do you handle Missing Persons cases?I need you to find my husband.He has disappeared.

It has got me really worried. Can’t eat -- can’t sleep.It is his turn to take out the garbage and he is nowhere to be found.

-- Nervous in Newark

------------------------------

Dear Nervous in Newark:

Missing Persons cases are in fact our bread and butter; and in this case we can share with you some of our expertise for free.

Have you tried looking in the den, in front of the teevee?That is where husbands tend to disappear to, in a case like this.Heck, that’s what *we’d* do.

-- The Murphys

~~~

Hey Murphys,

I married this babe in Vegas the other day (musta been drunk), but now I’m done with her and want to dump her.Think you could come up with some compromising photographs, maybe Photo-Shop ‘em if need be?There’s an extra fiver in it for you if you can help me ditch her fast, cause I already got another hot date for tonight.

-- Rex

------------------------------

Rex:

We do not normally do divorce cases, but in your case we’ll make an exception.

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From the Cracker Barrel

Murphy on the “Allah”/”God” question

Okay fine — not my line — not my deal at all.But it’s all so stupid, I just gotta say something.

Y’see:Folks, they all got these languages.Like, your grandmama spoke Italian, and mine spoke — well, we never knew my dad, and my mom skipped town, but anyhow, somewhere, back in the Old Country, back in the day,great-great-grandfather Patrick and great-great-grandmother Molly were chatting away there in Irish.Capisc’?

So take French.My fans will know this as the frog-talk that I spoke, a little, to such tremendous effect, in one of my famous cases (“Murphy on the Mount”).So like, you & me, we say: “sh*t”; and in France they say, “merde” — pardon my French, it’s actually the only French word I know.So help me out here, dictionary.

Right.We say, “doggie”, and they say, “chien”.And we say, “table”, and they say — well how about that, they say “table” too, only they pronounce it funny.And— here, key point:we say, “God”(like when we’re praying — you gotta not take this name in vain), and the French say — when they’re praying — …. “Dieu”.

Different words — same idea.

— Only, you say:Reeelly?Is it thesame ideareeeally?

Well listen, back in Ireland, we got Catholics and we got Protestants, and they both say “God”, but the stupid ones hate each other, and each says the other

guy got his head up his… (checking out the dictionary now — they was French, they’d say “cul”), and if the other guy says “God” (probably not praying, he just hit his thumb with a hammer), he probably means some purple moon-god with three heads or something; but anyhow, no way those bums know what they are talking about.

And in fact they don’t.And we don’t.I mean, How could we?God is infinite — on top of and at the bottom of and behind of, all things.And us?We’re just us, just doing our best, scraping by. And when any one of us says, “God”, it is really just a prayer: saying, “Thou — there — up there, somewhere —Do thou help us to comprehend…”(My Greek buddies got a word for this:Eleison, Kyrie.)

So we do, most of us, mostly the best that we can; but of “God” we got only the vaguest idea.So we just keep on, keeping on —slipping and sinning and screwing things up, century after century; until one day, God gets fed up, and he sends down his only, lonely, begotten son, to straighten things out. — Least that’s what us Catholics believe;the Protestants, I don’t know.

So where was I?— Yes! — You got, probably, somewhere in your bloodlines, your great-great-great-great-….grandmother Fatima, back from when the Crusaders were over there, laying about them with cutlasses;but after a hard day of crusading, a man’s mind turns to other matters;and lo, behold, that dark-haired beauty, her eyes like almonds, her eyes like diamonds— shy, yet inviting — drawing water from the well.And she’s from the other camp, the bad guys;but that ewer is so heavy, and you you’re a knight, right? and a knight does not leave a damsel to her distress, no no no, Saracen or no Saracen; so maybe he will offer her his services, and maybe later she will offer up a cup of the purest, to his parched lips… Anyway, that’s the story of your great-great-etcetera-grandmother Fatima.

So what did Fatima say; and what does her great-great-(you get the idea)-granddaughter, say today, when praying?

They say:“Allah”.Allah!Meaning it, whatever it means.

And they don’t understand what exactly it does mean, any more than we do, any more than you do, any more than that preacher-man who thinks he does know the real deal and you don’t — any more than does any of us,when we say “God”.

But it’s the same prayer…..

For our French and Arabic speaking readers, here's an interesting exploration of the topic: